November rain in this part of town doesn’t just fall; it attacks. Tonight, it hammers against Murphy’s Diner windows like bullets, turning the parking lot into a battlefield of puddles and rushing water. Darius scrapes his last table of the evening shift, his stomach hollow with anticipation. For three days, he’s been saving every penny for this moment. No snacks after school, no soda with lunch, walking instead of taking the bus both ways—all for the simple pleasure of buying his own meal, sitting down like a customer instead of working behind the scenes. The burger and fries waiting at the pickup counter represent more than food. They represent choice. For once, Darius gets to decide what he eats instead of settling for whatever’s cheapest.

But as he reaches for his tray, something makes him stop.

Table six.

The corner booth is usually reserved for couples on dates or families celebrating birthdays. Tonight, it holds two figures who look completely out of place: an elderly white couple, both soaked to the bone. The woman’s silver hair drips steadily onto her designer coat. Even waterlogged, Darius can tell the coat cost more than he makes in a month. Her husband sits ramrod straight despite his age, but his expensive suit clings to him like wet newspaper. They ordered coffee. Nothing else. Just coffee. And they’ve been nursing those same two cups for over an hour.

Darius watches from behind the counter as the woman opens her purse for the fourth time. Her movements grow more frantic with each search. She dumps the contents onto the table—tissues, reading glasses, breath mints—but no wallet, no money clip, nothing. She whispers something urgent to her husband. He pats down his coat pockets, then his pants pockets, then back to his coat. The shake of his head tells the story before he even speaks.